When we write, we ask our readers to carry a load. Each sentence adds something to their working memory: the subject, the verb, the modifiers, the structure, the argument. For some readers, that load is light and easy to balance. For others, it competes with stress, fatigue, distraction, or the constant weight of systemic inequities. The heavier the load, the harder it is for the message to get through.

Proofreading is the last line of defence before a piece of writing meets its reader. By this point, the structure has been set, the style refined, and the sentences polished. Proofreading isn’t about rewriting or reshaping—it’s about examining the text after layout, once words and visuals are in place, to make sure nothing slips through the cracks.

By the time a manuscript arrives at copyediting, the heavy lifting is finished. The ideas are in place, the voice is established, the structure has been set. Copyediting comes closer, reading line by line, attending to the fine details. It doesn’t change the architecture of the house—it makes sure the doors close properly, the windows line up, and the paint runs smooth.

If developmental editing looks at the frame of the house, stylistic editing steps inside. This is where the editor moves from the big questions of structure to the finer work of flow—how paragraphs connect, how sentences carry meaning, how language sets the mood. It isn’t yet copyediting, where commas and consistency take centre stage. It’s the stage where the writing begins to breathe.

When most people picture editing, they imagine the fine-tuning that comes at the end: smoothing sentences, fixing typos, double-checking grammar. But editing begins much earlier than that. Before a manuscript can be polished, it needs to be shaped. It needs a structure strong enough to hold everything the writer is trying to say. This is the work of developmental editing.

Writers prepare themselves for rejection from agents. They brace for silence after sending queries, expect form letters, even rehearse their resilience for the inevitable stack of “thanks, but no thanks.” They know it’s part of the gauntlet.

There’s nothing quite like opening a file full of tracked changes for the first time. Red lines, comments in the margins, words struck through, sentences rewritten. Even when you’ve asked for this feedback, it can feel like a punch in the gut. You pour months or years into a manuscript, and suddenly it’s covered in edits. How could it not feel personal?

Writers often assume that as soon as a draft exists, it’s time to call in an editor. After all, if the point is to improve the manuscript, why not hand it over right away? The temptation is real: you’ve finally strung together thousands of words, the shape of a book is there on the page, and you’re eager for validation. An editor will fix it, you think. They’ll tell me what works. They’ll save me from wasting time.

Writers often ask me if I can proofread their work, but proofreading is not the red pen that your teachers used to use.

Proofreading feels like a natural act of care for your writing. You want your words to look clean, to feel professional, to reflect the effort you’ve put into them.

Writers often come across the term manuscript evaluation/assessment—and pause. What does it mean? Is it just a lighter version of editing? Will it actually be useful? Or is it one of those vague publishing services that promises a lot and delivers little?

Writers usually assume the beginning is the most important part of a manuscript to share. It makes sense. The opening is where the hook lives, and writers spend endless hours honing it. That first line is rewritten until it bears little resemblance to the draft you started with. Whole evenings go into moving commas, weighing two nearly identical words, or shifting a paragraph around to see if it lands with more punch.